


As You Wish

by Reda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, He gets better, M/M, Romance, Smut, angsting over the past lol, but no worries, it's more angst in the sense of england overthinking the past, oh that's a nifty tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:44:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19758046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reda/pseuds/Reda
Summary: He shakes his head, not wanting to speak of punch and alcohol and colors of flags. Seeing America's flag is enough to bring back memories. He can almost see the battlefield. He can almost feel the rain. Taste the blood and tears and bitter defeat. Can almost feel the anguish of losing one he felt so close to, one he wanted to protect forever. [USUK America Birthday Fic]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this years ago. Copying to my Ao3 account.

~1~

He is not the type to crash a party. For years, he has not come to this party in particular. Whether or not he has been waiting for an invitation for so many years, he does not believe he would have come even after being invited. For so long, he has believed to be content simply sitting at home and ignoring the ache that hits him when he looks at the calender. Content sitting in his house, alone, without distractions, knowing the other nations were doing something stupid and crazy with a certain boy.

He frowns to himself even as he steps out of the taxi and stares up at the mansion. Even after all these years, he still thinks of Alfred as a boy. When he imagines America, he sees the child he had once been. He ignores the grown up in his memories, the one staring sadly at him in the rain, looking down with such pity as if _he_ were the one making the mistake. He doesn't dare to imagine the face of the one who had shown up to help in the world wars, grown and incredibly tactless, incredibly idiotic, incredibly naïve, yet still a nation with big guns and so many people.

He doesn't dare let himself think of America as anything but a child. If he were still a child, then there would be no reason to feel hurt. A rebellious teenager was better than a principled man, after all. So he avoids America. He avoids the visits. He ignores the loud crazy ideas in world meetings.

Most certainly, he avoids any mention of the lad's birthday party...

"Yet here you are," he mutters to himself, letting out a cross between a laugh and a sigh as he holds his gift tucked neatly under his arm and stands at the door to the mansion.

There is still time. Still time to turn back and call off this farce. Still time to return to the comfort of his home. Still time to pretend this never happened, that he never came this far, that he never had an inkling of an urge to visit. Still time...until his hand moves almost on its own and he hears the knock as if from far away.

The door opens, but it is not America who stands on the other side. He finds himself staring at Feliciano Vargas, Italy, who smiles like he always does. It would be hard to imagine Italy not at a party. He supposes it is normal. Of course Feliciano would be invited long before he is, especially for this day.

Once again, he wonders why he has even come this far, but now it is too late to turn back so there's nothing for it but to move forward.

Italy waves, a glass of wine in one hand and a party hat on his head resting on the opposite side of his curl. "Ve, hola Britain~ I didn't know you were invited~ You never come to America's parties..."

It isn't until he steps inside the house that he notices how absurdly quiet the place is. For one of America's parties, it seems like the crowd itself has been switched out with a team of ghosts. Except America hates ghosts, so there's no way it would be that, even though he can feel the eyes of every other nation staring at him without any sound crossing their lips. Staring at _him_ as he walks with his head down.

He takes one step and then another, possibly because he's too stubborn to turn back now, even though he's caused some kind of scene simply by showing up. What was it Italy had said? _Didn't know you were invited...You never come..._

Well, he supposes that is true, at least. This is the first time he has made his way across the ocean at this time of year. The first time he has bought a hotel room in America's land for no other reason than a personal visit, no political move, no push by his boss; no, this visit is completely on his own. And it feels strange and wonderful and terrifying all at the same time. He should turn back; he should drop the present and run; but he's too stubborn to leave now. He's here now. He'll be damned if he lets a few little stares and covered whispers chase him away.

Lifting his eyes, he scans the crowd and finds the object, the person, of his concern. Alfred is standing near the center of the large room, talking with Japan. Even with the silence being so loud it's deafening, the American has yet to notice anything out of the ordinary, still talking as if nothing is wrong. Typical. So bloody typical.

Of course, Japan gestures towards him and America starts to turn. He lowers his gaze immediately. He does not want to catch Alfred's eye, not yet. Not yet. He angles his steps toward America and quickens his pace, stopping only once he can see the pair of shoes that he would recognize anywhere because even though Alfred is always buying new things, he seems to be upgrading more than changing styles completely.

Taking a breath, he holds his gift out. He wants to look up and face him, but at the same time he knows his words will get caught in his throat if he does so. With everyone watching, everyone listening, he's suddenly self-conscious about every move, every word, every twitch. A part of him wonders if the others can hear his heart beating, because the _thump-thump-thump_ is starting to bother him now.

"Happy Independence Day, America," he says.

There is a slight pause where the silence stretches on into infinity, and then America swipes the present from his hands. "Aw thanks, England," he says. "But I wasn't really expecting you."

This of all things makes him lift his eyes. Still, he avoids meeting the blue eyed gaze, while still looking toward him, that little trick of looking just above someone's shoulder so they think you're paying attention. "What do you mean?" He frowns, "You sent me an invitation."

"Oh, I did?" America laughs. "Still, didn't expect you to come, you know, what with it being celebrating my independence from you and all..."

At the simple, _casual_ reference to such a painful memory, he clenches his teeth, sets his jaw. "If you'd rather me leave, I have no problem with that. After all, it only makes sense that on this day you'd want to be as far away from me as possible."

"Oh no, I'm actually glad you're here!" America says quickly, grinning. "What'd you get me?"

After watching the American give a few quick shakes to his gift, Arthur shuts his eyes and forces himself to take a calming breath. 'This was America. He remembers this day in a different light. It's a happy day for him. A happy, carefree day...' But still it is hard to listen to him so casually toss out the words independence in front of the one he declared separation from on this day so long ago.

"Something you will more than likely throw away," he mutters.

He knows the choice of gift is probably not the wisest move he has ever done. He is still not sure what he expects. He is still not sure why he made such a choice. What is he hoping for? What does he want? Why did he even come? This has not been what he expected at all. Already he's wishing to go home.

"Why would I -?" Alfred's words break off as he opens the gift, tearing the paper and tossing it on the ground, as careless as the child he remembers. He hears a small, choked off sound from America and opens his eyes to catch the blue-eyed gaze behind the pair of glasses, but then Alfred cracks a smile. "So you _do_ have a sense of humor, England!"

He frowns, sending a glare at America...and the box of tea he holds, just for good measure. This is not the reaction he was hoping for, even though he doesn't really know what he was expecting. "You are an imbecile," he mutters, turning on his heel and intending to make his way out.

It is only now that he realizes for certain that this visit was a bad idea. Definitely the worst decision he's ever made. Why did he even bother? Obviously the brat still has yet to understand the finer details of life. Not understanding the gift. Thinking it's a joke. Bah. Why did he expect anything different? Of course America isn't going to say _thanks for the gift, thanks for coming, oh, I was hoping you'd come._ No, instead he gets something only a clueless _child_ would say. Why is he even -?

The hand grabbing his arm is a surprise, and he freezes at the touch more from shock than any real force. "Hey, where are you going?"

The question catches him off guard. Where is he going? What is he doing here in the first place? Why did he come? He's certainly leaving, but where exactly? He did get a hotel room, but he doesn't have to stay there. After all, nations had access to a private jet whenever they so chose. True, his boss still didn't know about this little visit, but...

"Home," he says into the silence, stating the word as soon as it hits his mind. "I'm going home. Clearly the invitation was a mistake."

"Aw c'mon, don't be like that. Stay a while."

If that awful destruction of the English language, that awful accent didn't get on his every last nerves sometimes. Keeping his face away from America, keeping his eyes on the door, he pulls his arm out of Alfred's grip. "No. America, you won. It was a fair fight, and I shouldn't bother you about it so much."

He turns his head to look over his shoulder, eyes finally taking in the grown up standing before him. A pressure hit behind his eyes and he had to force himself to speak over the new lump in his throat. America was grown up; he really wasn't a child anymore; he was an adult; he was a nation on his own; and he was on top of the world.

"You've grown into a fine nation, America. Congratulations," he says, before tearing away from the sight. Walking away from the acceptance of America's adulthood. Even now, it is hard to admit to it. Even now, he still wants to pretend the annoying man he deals with so often in meetings is not the same as the adorable child he raised.

Before he can reach the door, before he can escape this place, America is in front of him, blocking his path once again. He stops suddenly, and then gasps when Alfred grabs his hands. Both of his hands. Holding onto them, rubbing thumbs against his bare skin. It is awkward and sudden and so...

"Thanks," Alfred says with a grin. "That means a lot, coming from you."

His eyes catch the grin, then look away. He does not know what to do with his hands. His brain still has not seemed to catch on to the intimacy in the action. He wants to get away. He wants to leave. The ache is starting to grow, and he cannot explain or understand why.

"I'm going home," he states firmly. "I have given you a gift and your congratulations. Now I wish to return home."

"Aw," America whines, "But I like having you here. At least stay for the fireworks!"

He looks up and his breath catches at the look behind those blue eyes. Or maybe it is simply the way the light is reflecting from the glasses, somehow making those blue eyes appear even brighter than before. They are pleading, begging him to stay, and so reminiscent of a certain child from his memories. A certain child he had to deny so many times.

Does he really want to disappoint America again?

"Very well," Arthur says, closing his eyes and letting a long sigh escape his lips, knowing that no, he does not want to disappoint this boy ever again. "I will stay for a little while longer."

"Sweet!" America exclaims, and suddenly his hands are free but arms are wrapped around him, squeezing tightly. A hug?

What? Why? All of a sudden?

His eyes widen and he reacts almost instantly, pushing the lad off of him. "I'm not doing it for you!"

America laughs. "Relax, dude, that was just a friendly glomp." _A friendly what?_ "Hey! You should come check out the punch! I think Prussia spiked it...though Denmark tried to add something else and Norway pulled him away before he could. Haha! You should have seen them!"

His heartbeat is still racing, still beating ridiculously fast in his chest, still pounding out a rhythm that he is surprised no one else can hear. He takes a few quick breaths and forces himself to be calm, or at least show to the world that he is calm even if he is still surprised and dazed by the words, attitudes, and actions of a certain American. Somehow he manages to hear what Alfred says and he straightens up, rolling his eyes.

"You're such a child," he says. "Like a college freshman."

"Huh?" America stares at him. "What makes you say that?"

"Your idea of intelligent conversation is 'someone spiked the punch.' Honestly, will you ever grow up?"

"I did grow up, though," America mutters, his face suddenly pouting like a child, which is enough to pull back the pleasant memories in his mind. "Didn't you just say that a few minutes ago?"

He has to flinch away from the sad look, upset with himself for putting such a look on America's face. Can he not ever do anything right? All he wants is to leave so he can stop disappointing this child, stop making him sad on his birthday. "Yes," he mutters. "I suppose I did."

Bouncing back quickly, America brings back the earlier conversation as if nothing had gone awkward. "So, anyway, did you want to try the punch? It's red, white, and blue. I mean, those are your colors, too, huh?"

He shakes his head, not wanting to speak of punch and alcohol and colors of flags. Seeing America's flag is enough to bring back memories. He can almost see the battlefield. He can almost feel the rain. Taste the blood and tears and bitter defeat. Can almost feel the anguish of losing one he felt so close to, one he wanted to protect forever.

"How long?" He murmurs. "How long has it been, America? How many 'birthdays' have I missed?"

"Uh...I don't know...I lost track after a hundred."

"Over a hundred," he whispers. "It's been over a hundred years and only now have you invited me."

"Hey, England," he hears the whisper from America as if the boy is leaning in close to him, so he keeps his eyes on the ground, not wanting to look up at him and be too close for comfort. "You're the one that gave me tea."

Except that comment makes his head shoot up and his eyes narrow. "Well maybe you should be grateful for once in your life!"

America straightens back up and sticks his tongue out. "I never did like tea after that incident, you know." The boy hums as Arthur continues to glare, feeling the annoyance building into a flame of heat in his chest. "But anyway, it's in the past." America mutters before reaching a hand out, offering a hand to him. "Enjoy the party with me?"

The gesture, the question, it makes him blink and step back. It makes him stare, look from the hand to the smile on the boy's face. It makes him glance around at the rest of the nations, reminding himself that there are others here, even if they have finally found something else to entertain themselves. Which is good. He does not like being the center of attention for too long, especially not when it involves America always catching him off guard.

He steps back and pulls his hands close to his body, letting out a huff of breath. "You have other guests. Maybe you should go entertain them and leave me alone." The statement sounds colder in the air than it did in his head and he fights the urge to wince when he hears his own words.

America doesn't seem to be bothered. "Aw, c'mon, Arthur. It's the first time you've been to one of my birthday parties. I'm sure everyone else will understand."

"And whose fault is that?" He snaps, the flame popping out before curling back to a steady warmth in the center of his chest. He sighs and puts a hand to his head. "Never mind. You win. I'll have some of your punch."

"I honestly didn't think you'd want to come," America murmurs before grabbing at Arthur's arm again. "But I'm glad you're here now!"

Feeling a little annoyed at being touched and pulled around like this, Arthur sighs, reminding himself that this is America's birthday party, that the boy should have at least one day without having to worry about getting a lecture. Let the boy be a boy. They reach the punch table and America drops the grip on Arthur's arm, using that same hand to swipe a few of the desserts from the table, seeing as it is decorated in red, white, and blue colored sweets as well as the layered punch.

He stands there and watches, mostly disinterested, as Alfred takes a small plastic cup and pours some of the festive punch. "Like I said, though, I'm pretty sure Prussia spiked it...and Denmark probably managed to sneak something else in when no one was looking." America smiles as he hands the cup to Arthur and then starts to pour another one for himself. "Tastes awesome, though."

Holding the punch cup in both hands, he raises an eyebrow at the information. "How can you not know what they put in it, and then not worry about it making you sick?" He has decided. He will not be drinking this punch anytime soon. He knows he is not the best at holding is liquor, though he still believes he can out last America, but he knows if he does get drunk he will no doubt regret everything that happens this night. He does not want to regret. He does not want to ruin America's birthday any more than he already has.

"Never has before," America says with a shrug. The boy lightly smashes the two plastic cups together, as if clashing two glasses in a toast, except he says nothing that is anything remotely like a toast. "Come on. Try it."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, all right, but -" he breaks off when he realizes something else. "Wait. What do you mean 'before?' Have they done this at other parties?"

"Yup!" America grins. "It's almost expected now. Just like how France always gets naked by the end of the night and Hungary always ends up beating a few people with her frying pan – mostly France and Prussia, though sometimes Spain when they're acting like a trio. Really, the party's just getting started, England. Nothing's happened yet." A soft smile crosses the boy's face. "Well, except you showing up of course."

He finds himself frowning, staring at the cup in his hand. He's not really listening to America ramble on and on about the crazy antics of the nations at a party. If the world knew, if their bosses knew, what kind of things they did behind closed doors...He takes a sip of the drink in his hand without really realizing it, but when the alcohol hits his tongue he pulls the drink back and sets it to the side, leaving it on the table.

"I think I'd best leave now-"

Before he even has a chance to finish the sentence, America springs forward. "No!" The boy exclaims, a hand pressing down on Arthur's shoulder, as if to keep him stationary, which makes no sense. "You only just arrived, didn't you? And what about the fireworks?"

At the mention of fireworks, imagining the explosions going off, he shuts his eyes and suppresses the wince. "America," he says, "Fireworks remind me too much of the war. I can't stay here and watch those."

"Not even with me?" America pushes. "I mean they're really the best part and I -" Arthur finds himself leaning in when the boy cuts off and glances to the side, his voice dropping into a surprising whisper. "I've always wanted to watch them with you."

"Alfred," he says, frowning, feeling his brow furrow as he tries to understand what this boy is saying and what he really means by it. "How do you expect me to be cheerful when you're celebrating the day you broke off your relations with me?"

America's response is surprisingly quick. "Because you don't have to think about _why_ there's a celebration to enjoy the party," and the young man is grinning as if stating some secret that he discovered. "Just think of it as my birthday. You don't have to remember all that depressing stuff..."

_All that depressing stuff_...

Did Alfred not understand why he couldn't stand to come here? It wasn't a single moment. It wasn't the embarrassing moment when he broke down in the rain, seeing the truth so clearly before him, finally cracking when he realized this had actually happened. It was the fact that America had left him. All those years, all those promises, all those smiles, and the moment he grew up enough to make his own way – the very _moment_ – America broke away, pushed away from him, wanting nothing more to do with him, _hating_ him...

The pressure is behind his eyes again. The emotion is cracking through his facade. He has to leave, has to escape, has to get out of this nightmare of memories. He turns away, determined to leave this time no matter what America says. "I'm sorry, Alfred," he manages to whisper. "I'm not as ready for this as I thought I would be...and this is year 226."

His feet begin to walk. He keeps his head lowered, trying to keep himself together. It is ridiculous how much he is on the edge of falling apart. This day has never been the same. The wounds are still fresh. He's tried so hard to push them back, to forget them, but every year the slightest mention of America's independence leads to a spiral of thoughts that eventually push him over the edge. There is a reason he holes up in his own house during this holiday.

He is almost to the door when America grabs his arm. Again. "Please don't go, Arthur. Not when you already came this far."

His steps freeze. He doesn't have much of a choice. "I thought not being invited to this was the most painful feeling in the world," he mutters, "...but I was wrong."

"Ah -" he can hear America's voice just behind him. "I'm sorry. I should have invited you a long time ago. I was just so sure you wouldn't want to be here, but now that you _are_ here..." The grip around his arm seems to tighten. "I'm not letting you go."

Forcing his way out of the grip is much harder this time, but he manages it somehow, a little surprised and upset and annoyed that America would stand for such a thing. "You make no sense!" His face is burning, though he doesn't know why. "You won't let me leave a celebration for when _you_ left _me_?"

_Oh god...oh god..._

Hearing his voice crack, he wants to curl up and hide. Saying the words out loud are worse than simply repeating them in his head. This is the day America left him. All those years ago, this is the day the boy declared independence, the day the young man turned a gun against him – against _him_!

And now Alfred is just standing there, hands up, a gesture of surrender as if Arthur is the one being aggressive here. "Hey, you came here on your own, Arthur. Why? If you can't stand to be here, then why'd you come in the first place?"

"I -" Feeling his eyes grow, he freezes, his heart pumping hard in his chest, hearing the blood rushing in his ears as he tries to collect his thoughts, tries to understand, tries to search for an answer. He has been searching for an answer to that question since he took the first step onto the airplane that brought him here. "I – I don't know. I don't know, damn it!"

"So," America says, his head tilting to the side. "You don't even know why you came. Was it really just to give me a gift and say a little congratulations...and then leave? Seems like an awful lot of time and money to spend coming over here just for that..."

_My boss doesn't even know I'm here...He's not going to be happy to learn about the money spent..._

Somehow, he manages to find his voice again. "I told you, I thought I was ready for this, but clearly I was wrong!" He's shouting. Dash it all, he's shouting at America. Coming to his birthday party and shouting at the boy. Can he not be in the same room with the lad before he's shouting and annoyed and falling to pieces within a matter of minutes? Closing his eyes, taking a quick breath, he forces himself to calm. "I know you will have plenty of fun without me."

"Nope," America denies quickly. "I've noticed something. If you're not with me, it always feels like something's missing. Sure at first, birthday's were great, but now...now I just want you here and I don't care if it's hard or doesn't make sense." He can't believe what he's hearing. Does America even know what he's saying? Does he even realize how dizzy it's making him feel? "I guess I'm trying to say that if you leave now, it'll just hurt worse not having you here." His biggest mistake is looking up. When Arthur looks up and catches the blue eyes, he knows he's going to cave in again. "So please don't go."

His cheeks are burning, but he does his best to ignore it. "All right," he mutters, glancing away. "All right, you win."

America smiles and grabs his hand. His hand! "So, we left our punch over by the table, and you have _got_ to try France's cake ball desserts."

It's too intimate. It feels too warm. Their palms touching. America squeezing his hand like this. His mind feels scrambled, racing in so many different directions. What is this? Why does the boy have to be so addicted to touching, to pulling him here and there, to leading him around?

"Why would I eat something the frog made?" He huffs, trying his best to ignore the heat in his face.

America shrugs as he pulls England to the dessert table, swiping the cup Arthur had left there earlier and handing it back to him. "Oh, just 'cause they're pretty good. You could always try Italy's pizza, but most of that disappears really fast so I doubt if there's anymore left."

He sighs. "Honestly, America, I'm not that hungry." Takes a sip of the drink against his better judgment.

"Aww, but the desserts are the best part," Alfred whines as he drops England's hand to gulp down his own drink of spiked punch. "Besides the punch of course."

"All right, all right," Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes at the childish side of the nation. "I'll have one of those...whatever it was the frog made."

His surrender seems to give America a pep in his step, leading him down the table to where the little balls of dessert are arranged in some patterns, mostly broken now that people have been eating them. "They're cake balls. Like little cakes but in a ball...and some of them have alcohol, too." America laughs, "I mean, you can't have a good birthday party without alcohol, right?"

"Hm," he grunts. "Seems like that's the main theme here, isn't it?" Taking one of the little dessert balls in his own hand, choosing one colored red and popping it into his mouth, not expecting too much.

Of course he is pleasantly surprised at the taste that explodes across his tongue. Red velvet? Chocolate underneath it all? And the texture! It almost seems to melt in his mouth and he forgets where is he in the middle of all that flavor. At least until America nudges him in the side.

"See, I knew you'd like it."

With a swallow, he finishes off the dessert. "Shut it," he snaps, hand reaching for another of the tasty things. "I never said I liked it."

"Haha, okay, that's why you're grabbing more?"

This one definitely has alcohol. What did he grab? A blue one? It tastes like vodka. Why vodka? It tastes like a mix of fruit and alcohol...or, no, sprite and alcohol...whatever it is, his tongue is dying for more already. He swallows and groans a little at feeling a lack of the wonderful taste.

"It's only because it's rude to not eat what the host lays out for you," he mumbles, even as he grabs a third one.

Addicting. Bloody hell but it annoys him how the frog can cook so well. Perfect little desserts. For America's birthday. His tongue freezes to the roof of his mouth, feeling the fire in his chest start to flare up again. France was able to make America happy. France was able to cook something so good that America had to share it with him. Show it off, even. The flame wanted to lash out; if he could only find that frog, maybe he would show the bastard who was allowed to make America happy.

America's laughter tore him out of his thoughts. "Okay, we'll go with that, then."

Fighting the blush, he pulls his hands back to his side, and then downs the rest of the punch. "There," he huffs. "Happy now?"

"Yeah," America smiles. "The longer you stay here, the happier I get."

Now the blush is definitely harder to fight. He can feel the heat climbing into his cheeks. He only hopes it's not too noticeable. "Whatever," he says, trying to throw attention away from the awkward. "What now, hm?"

The boy shrugs, looks around the room, then grins. "Fireworks should be starting soon. Wanna go outside with me?"

_With me?_

He gulps, feeling a little buzz on his tongue, wondering how much alcohol he has managed to consume. How much is hidden under the desserts and the punch? How many drinks has he taken? Is he really starting to loosen up, to feel it? To be honest, he doesn't want to stay and watch America's prized fireworks. He wants to leave now before he can be forced through such a thing, but he can't seem to voice what he wants.

"All right. If that is really what you want."

"Here," America says, taking the empty punch cup from him and refilling it, along with his own. Before Arthur can protest, Alfred has handed the drink back to him and grabbed his free hand. Warmth hits him and he swears he has had too much to drink because he feels like a silly blushing schoolgirl all of a sudden and it doesn't make a lick of sense. Buzzed. A little. He can still control himself. He just has to cut himself off now before things go too far. "I love this place at night."

At America's statement, he is pulled away from his thoughts. Pulled back into reality to see they have gone outside. Standing on a balcony of America's large party house. Looking out at the New York bay. He finds himself staring at the Statue of Liberty, cringing just at the reminder that America holds something from France as valuable and praiseworthy, and is there not anything from _him_ that he likes?

"See," America says, pointing out toward the statue. "They're gonna shoot them off from there and the whole sky gets covered in 'em."

"Really?" He takes a sip of the punch in his hand, a part of him curious to see this amazing display despite himself.

"Yup! Every year!" America laughs, leaning across the balcony rail and grinning.

At the first explosion, the first display of bright colors, he tenses. As the rest of the nations rush their way onto the balcony to get the best view, Arthur stands frozen. A hand goes out to hold the white railing, as if seeking balance. As the explosions and the sound of music blaring from the loud speaker radio – of course America would be blaring his national anthem at a time like this – he starts to wonder how much he can take. He watches, but he doesn't see anything. The sound so reminiscent of gunshots cuts into him each time and he clenches his hand around the railing.

It's too much. The memories swarm at him, and hearing the boy laughing beside him, pointing out things Arthur doesn't care to see...it's too much.

As if from a distance, he hears America wince. "Okay, so maybe this was a bad idea."

Shaking his head, Arthur pulls away. He has to pull away. He has to get away from it all. He feels sick. Everyone in this nation is celebrating their breaking away from him. Everyone is shouting about freedom, shouting their hatred of the British, mocking him...this is all...he can't take it...and America is laughing along...

It hurts. It cuts deeply to see the truth he has been ignoring for so long. He has to run. He spins away and forces himself to walk. He thinks he's dropped his drink at some point, but his mind is a haze of emotion and it is taking every inkling of control not to break down here. He will not break down in front of everyone. He refuses.

He's at the door when he hears America behind him. "Wait, Arthur! Don't leave yet!"

Ignoring the lad, he walks outside. One foot in front of the other. He has to keep moving. Ignoring everything. Pushing those thoughts away. He can only take so much. He's almost reached his limit. So he walks down the street, ignoring the sound of America calling for him. Can't the boy just understand? Can't he just leave him alone?

And then that grip is on his arm. Again. Always grabbing him, stopping him from leaving. "Wait. Just..." America is breathing like he's out of breath. "One more thing."

He tenses. "Why?" His voice cracks and he grimaces, trying to gather the anger, to pull the flame up from the pit of his stomach and force himself to pull away from this stupid boy. "Why are you insisting that I stay if...if you and I both know that all this does is bring troubled memories?" He's shouting again. He turns to face America. There's pressure behind his eyes. No, there's more than that now. Those tears on the edge of falling. He has to get out, but he just wants to yell at him now. "Unless you moved on long ago and you're just wanting to keep me here to rub it in my face!"

It hurts. It hurts so much and America was laughing. At least now the boy has the decency to look upset, shaking his head. "I didn't – I mean – well – I did move on – but it's more -" America can't seem to form words, and he sighs. "Here."

And then the shock of the century crashes into him. It happens so fast, it takes a moment for his brain to catch up. Lips against his own. Innocent. Honest. A kiss. What? A _kiss_?

Finally, he has enough fire to react, pushing America back harshly, stepping away, eyes wide and breath catching. "Wh-what the bloody hell was that about?"

"Didn't I hint to it earlier?" America says, his face slightly flushed, though nothing compared to what Arthur's own face must look like. "That I'm only happy when I'm with you."

He brings a hand to his head, not sure he wants to believe this. Not sure what to think of this. A confession? On this day of all days? What is he thinking? Why? What? It doesn't make sense! It just doesn't make a lick of sense! "B-But why? Why now? Why me?"

America shrugs. "I don't know. I've wanted to say something for a while now, but – heh – when you showed up to my birthday party, I just, I thought – well – never mind, it's all bad timing."

He frowns. That doesn't answer anything. _Wanted to say something for a while now_... "Then why are you acting like this? Like it's a huge surprise I showed up when you're the one who invited me?"

"I – uhm – I didn't exactly mean to -" Arthur raises an eyebrow when those words come out of America's mouth, but the young man is shaking his head. "It doesn't matter! Did you ever think that maybe breaking away like that hurt _me_ too? I wanted you to see me as an adult, not...not cause all that pain, damn it! And then, tonight, when you said I'd grown up I thought maybe I could take a chance."

He can feel his eyes widen, and he looks away. "I'm sorry, America. I suppose I have always been bitter towards you and your people for what happened long ago." Looking up at him, he drops everything and gives the boy a smile. "I'm proud of you."

The truth. After so long, it sounds strange, especially saying it now in this situation when so much else is going on, when all this other confusion is running around. It takes him a moment, but he does recognize that it is the truth. He is proud of America. He is proud of the great nation the little boy has grown into. It hurts to admit that America has grown up without him, but...he's still proud.

America smiles back. "Hey...I haven't seen that smile in a long time."

With a blink, feeling his face heat again, he looks away and mutters, "Whose fault is that?"

Hands grab his own again, thumbs rubbing against his skin, warm touches that send mixed signals. "I'm sorry," America says, leaning in closer. "Forgive me?"

Instead of answering, he looks up and blinks. "America...when did you get so big?"

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No, I mean..." Unable to find the words, Arthur lifts a hand and makes a gesture above America's head.

"Oh, hah, isn't that what happens when you grow up?"

"But when did you grow up?" He can feel his breath catch. "Where did the time go?"

All the regrets soar back. All the time he hasn't spent with America because he was bitter about their separation. All the time he has missed because he was too busy to worry about the rebellious kid. All the time...

"It's been over two hundred years, Arthur..."

He sighs and drops his hand. "I know...two hundred and twenty-six."

"Yeah, something like that," America laughs.

And then that strange feeling is back. Lips touching his own. Another kiss. _Another kiss_. His eyes widen and he puts his hands against America's chest, intending to push him back. Too quick. What is this? What is he supposed to do? Why is America moving so fast? They haven't even agreed on anything yet, and already America is rushing forward.

But something else hits him and he finds himself pressing back into the kiss. Accepting it. Letting America rush ahead. His emotions are all jumbled up, but this feels...this feels...he doesn't know what it feels...good, he supposes. A hand goes behind his head and starts to run through his hair, gently, intimate. So intimate without any warning. Yet he's relaxing at the touch and closing his eyes and relishing the moment even though half of his brain is screaming at him.

The kiss drops and America breathes. "I've been wanting to do that for a while now."

He blinks, stares up at him, taking a moment to recognize that arms have successfully wrapped around him, pulling him close. "What do you mean? How long have you wanted to...to kiss me?"

"Mmm, I forget," America murmurs. "But a long time. I just couldn't ever get the right moment."

The fire comes back. "And this is the right moment?" He snaps. "This day where the proof of us not working is all around?"

The nerve of this brat. Toying with him like this. It's absurd. "No," America says, at least having the decency to wince back at the statement. "I was thinking more like this is the best time to say no matter what I'll always love you?"

He blinks. Now this makes no sense. For sure this makes no sense. Why can America not ever make sense? "There's no way you mean that."

"Huh? Why wouldn't I?"

"Afred, why would anybody say that to me? The only one's who have ever said such a thing to me were my monarchs."

_And America won't understand that...he probably never had loving relations with his bosses. Not in that sense._

"Well, I said it now," America insists, leaning over to press his forehead against Arthur's, forcing their eyes to connect. "No matter what I'll always love you."

Something cracks inside him. The facade breaks. The pressure behind his eyes finally gives. A single tear escapes despite all efforts to hold it back. Damn it all, but the boy knows just how to say the right thing at the right time to make him break apart.

"You...You really mean that..."

"Yeah," America says. "I really do."

There's another kiss, and he welcomes this one, giving in, letting the pressure release, the pressure from this day, this night, fall apart as he clings to America. Fireworks explode in the night sky around them, but he ignores them. He allows himself this. Finally allows his feelings to be free. So long of holding back, of being frustrated. To see this child grow up, to finally have him here. _Love..._

America pulls back and smiles. "Sorry I waited forever to do something."

"Damn right you're sorry," he says, bringing his hands up to cup Alfred's face, smiling as the unexplained emotion takes him through a high, and this time he initiates the kiss, finding that he wants more, that he never wants to break apart. America ruins the moment, though, holding him closer, squeezing too tightly, being the bigger nation that doesn't realize his own strength. "Ah, Alfred, too tight."

"S-sorry," America says as he drops his arms. "My bad."

"Uhm..." Now that the moment is broken, he realizes where they are, what they were doing beforehand. "Don't you have a party to be at?"

"Oh. Right. That."

Unable to meet Alfred's eye, he turns his head to the side, feeling the heat attack his face. "Unless you'd rather ignore that and go somewhere else instead." There is that hotel room, after all.

"Hmm," America hums and scratches at his cheek. "It is the same thing every year." A hand touches Arthur's shoulder. "And you're here this time. Hmm, I dunno, what do you want to do?"

"I-I don't know! It's _your_ birthday, isn't it?" Honestly, America couldn't pick up the mood if it slapped him in the face. Arthur crosses his arms and turns away, grumbling to himself. "I'd rather just go for a walk."

Alfred moves quickly to stand beside him, tearing one of his hands free to walk with their hands entwined, causing Arthur to blush as much as he fights it. "Okay. We can go for a walk. I'd really just like to spend a birthday with you so ~"

He sighs, forcing his thoughts and emotions to get under control, forcing himself to think. "Alfred, if we start to be a...couple...can you promise me something?"

"Hm? What is it?"

"Promise me," he says, squeezing America's hand. "Promise me that you won't leave me like you did all those years ago."

His greatest fear. Being left. Being hated. Giving so much and having it thrown back in his face. It makes social interaction difficult. He is guarded and hard to talk to nowadays, because everyone he has ever loved has torn him up and spat him back out. And now America is here...

"Yeah, never again. I promise," America says, squeezing his hand back. "And I won't abandon you, either."

He stops walking. Steps in front of America. Smiling, tears rolling down his face, he reaches out and pulls the lad into another kiss. Pushes against him. Opens his mouth. Makes it meaningful. America follows his lead and answers the kiss just as forcefully. Suddenly, Arthur feels his feet leave the ground and he knows America has picked him up. Damn that kid and his super human strength.

But he goes with it. Keeping the kiss locked, he wraps arms around America's neck, fingers toying with the necklace, the dog tags hiding underneath the suit, what America always seems to be wearing. The breath gets knocked out of him when he feels his back slammed against a wall, some brick building, he's sure. The most he does is gasp, groan, and lift his legs, wrapping those around Alfred's waist.

On some level, he's lost himself. Lost in the feeling. In the moment. The present.

But then he notices that one of Alfred's hands is tugging at his tie, pulling his collar loose. "H-hah. Alfred...what...?"

He can feel the air on his neck. Cool breeze in the July heat. America pants as he continues to loosen the tie, continues to pull his shirt back. "They say Americans are hasty," he mutters. "But I've been waiting for this..."

And then those lips are against his neck and Arthur finds himself setting a gasp loose into the night air. A warm tongue tickling his skin. "Ah-ah-Alfred...wait..."

"Hm?" America hums against his neck.

A completely different kind of heat begins to grow and he feels his eyelids flutter, his hands digging into the collar of Alfred's shirt even without realizing. "A-America..." he all but whimpers, giving in, his brain turning into mush as the heat begins to take over his better sense of judgment.

Teeth add to the touch on his neck, light nibbling, making him moan. It has been a long time since anyone has touched him like this, and he doesn't know what to think of it. He isn't sure how to respond anymore. He's been so guarded against feelings, this old but familiar sensation is almost new. This heat in his body is similar but so different from the anger he is accustomed to carrying around.

It isn't until he feels hands popping the buttons of his shirt that he realizes where this is going...and where they are... "Nng-n-no. Wait. Not here..."

America pulls back, smirking, blue eyes gleaming behind those glasses. "Hm?"

"I-Inside," he pants. "I have a hotel room. We can...go there."

America chuckles. "Have a problem with where we are?"

He can feel his face flush at the implications of such a statement. "Y-you perverted idiot."

With a shrug, America appears to ignore him, leaning in to kiss him once more. Arthur narrows his eyes and bites down – lightly – on the tongue in his mouth. It successfully makes America pull back, holding his tongue, but it also makes Arthur realize he's up against a wall and clinging to America so the only thing keeping him from falling is the hands that almost dropped him.

"Ow! Hey, why'd you go and do that?"

"I told you," he huffs. "Not here."

"Fine," America says, sticking his tongue out. "You gonna let go or should I carry you 'cause I don't mind -"

He quickly drops his legs and arms, blushing madly, shuffling away, putting a hand to his heart, amazed at how fast it's beating. Bloody idiot. Bleeding impatient kid. Like a horny teenager...

Appearing beside him, America kisses his cheek. "So...hotel?"

"Y-yes," he clears his throat. "Let's just get a cab then, shall we?"

Once more, America grabs his hand, squeezing gently even as his other hand starts trying to flag down a taxi. Leaning in close to his ear, Alfred whispers. "As you wish," as if it means something more than what it seems.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Point of view switch here; I like to do that in my multi-chapter sex fics. Present tense and changing view points every chapter. It's fun!

~2~

It is hard to hold in his excitement when he hops into the taxi beside Arthur. He has been holding back, waiting for a moment alone – harder to find than you would think – and now he's finally gotten the chance. He's finally been able to tell England what he thinks, what he feels, what he's been holding onto for so many long years. And Arthur responded in kind! It's amazing!

Of course the excitement of his people is rather high, too, so that might be what keeps adding to his adrenaline and obsessive need to keep doing things. He wonders if England has experienced the same urges. Whenever his country is experiencing great moments of camaraderie or high doses of patriotism, America has so much pent up energy it becomes almost impossible to control.

Sure, he's learned how to use such energy when they're in a war. Thanks to Prussia during a short visit of training in his younger Revolutionary War days, he has learned how to control all the excess need and desire. But having Arthur here right in front of him makes it difficult to hold back. He guesses that the reason this hasn't been so hard to control before is because England's never come to visit on this day.

And when he really sits back and looks at Arthur, he understands why the other nation has refused to visit. As the fireworks go off around them, England sits in the back of the taxi, his legs crossed, his arms crossed, his eyes closed and his face frowning. He's either on the verge of scowling or crying, and America knows it's just a simple matter to push him one way or the other.

Of course, there's other reactions he can pull out if he wants now. His body is afire with need, anyway, and the way England sits there just makes it impossible to control any urges, especially with his tie loose and shirt collar already open and messed up. So, he leans back and blows into Arthur's ear.

Arthur tenses and then shudders. "Hah – Alfred, don't do that!"

He giggles but doesn't pull back. "Oh, but your reaction is too cute."

He leans over again and runs his tongue along Arthur's neck this time, getting a small yelp out of the older nation. He smirks when England jumps and puts a hand over his mouth. The reactions only egg him on and Alfred moves closer, setting a hand on Arthur's upper leg. Before Arthur can protest about his hand position, Alfred puts his mouth on the man's ear lobe and nibbles lightly, earning a very pleasing sound from the other nation, though muffled.

"Nng, Alfred. Stop. Have patience."

Smirking again, he decides to ignore the small request. After all, England is so obviously enjoying what he's doing. So why should he stop? He moves his mouth back down to Arthur's neck, finding a nice spot of skin and latching on, sucking a little, which makes Arthur squirm a little, gasp, and shift positions until his back is in the corner next to the car door.

"Alfred, I mean it. Stop."

He stares at him for a little bit, then smiles and sits back, relaxing in his own seat like nothing naughty happened. "How far to the hotel?"

"Not far," Arthur mutters. "Just be patient, you git."

"Ah, but I'm not a very patient person," he chuckles. "Americans are very hasty, you know."

Arthur sighs. "I can see that."

The cab stops, and Alfred jumps out quickly. In order to keep Arthur from paying, he pulls out his own wallet and hands the driver a collection of bills, not even sure how much it really costs, though his short glance at the driver's wide eyes makes him realize he may have paid a little much. Oh well. He laughs, shrugs it off, and rushes over to the other door just in time to catch Arthur's hand as the Englishman steps out of the car. He catches the slightly furrowed brows and the small blush, and he just grins as he pulls Arthur toward the hotel, not even caring about what they must look like.

Well, a glance over his shoulder once they're inside shows England trying to fix his shirt collar and tie with only one hand, looking possibly annoyed, most likely embarrassed to be so ruffled in public. Alfred finds that he can't help but grin at him, wishing he could take the image and keep it in his brain forever. Instead, another pressing matter enters his brain and he has to catch Arthur's eye.

"So, what room?" He asks, even as he hums and waits by the elevator door, assuming they would take the elevator no matter what floor.

Arthur doesn't get a chance to answer until the door opens and Alfred pulls them both into the elevator. "Two hundred twenty-seven," Arthur says, sending him a look. "Second floor," he states, as if trying to make a point that there is no need to use the elevator for one measly floor.

Alfred shrugs, turns to the buttons, and has an idea hit him, especially once he realizes no one else is in the elevator with them. "Hey, Artie~"

Without waiting for a response, he presses the top floor button, and smirks when the doors close, turning around with his back to the button array just in time to catch Arthur swallow and reach out to try to press the correct floor. "Hey now, don't be childish."

"Oh come on," Alfred says, springing into action quickly as he takes both of Arthur's hands and then forces him back, pushing him back all the way to the back wall of the elevator, accidentally slamming him against the wall but purposefully holding him there. "It'll be fun. And there's a lot less chance of getting caught in here."

He hears Arthur groan as he squirms against the hold. "America...I'm not even sure if I want..."

"Want?" Alfred repeats, though he doesn't give Arthur much time to respond, leaning in to latch onto a part of his exposed neck, sucking and near biting the skin.

"Nnn – hah – Alfred, this is just so sudden...and fast."

"So?" He questions, rolling his tongue around Arthur's collarbone, testing out different areas, weighing the reactions to different touches, trying to memorize everything.

"S-so...so..." That one is apparently a good one, because it leaves Arthur groaning and panting, losing his train of thought. "Hmm...nothing."

"Nothing, huh?" He playfully asks as he changes his hand position until he has Arthur's hands together, held above his head so Alfred only has to use one hand to hold both wrists steady. As he does this, though, he's kissing Arthur, but purposefully avoiding his lips. Up his neck. Across his jaw. On his cheeks, around his lips, always missing the mark.

"Ah," if the squirming is any indication it's driving Arthur insane. "Alfred..."

With a smirk, he gives in just a little bit, leaving England with a little peck on the lips and nothing near what he's probably asking for by now. He even pulls back and takes his free hand to tug the tie off completely and then start _slowly_ undoing each button, as if it's a hassle to take off, letting his breath ghost over the skin as it is slowly exposed.

The kick gets him completely by surprise. Unexpectedly, England manages to free himself, and kick America to the floor at the same time. While Alfred sits there stunned, Arthur rushes to the button array and slams his hand on the emergency stop button, forcing the elevator to freeze wherever it currently happens to be. Alfred doesn't manage to take all of this in, blinking as Arthur comes back to settle on top of him, a little smirk on a his face.

"Get a little cocky, Alfred?" Arthur asks, and America has to remind himself that England is no easy pushover. He was once the great British Empire, after all.

Still, it takes his mouth a bit to catch up to the rest of his working brain. "Hey – what – when did you?"

He blinks as Arthur leans down to whisper in his ear. "I've lived longer than you, so I know a thing or two." He watches as England sits back and licks his lips, looking positively in control and in charge even if a few minutes ago he was squirming against a wall. "Now. Where should we start?"

"H-Huh?"

Arthur moves above him now, but Alfred is a little distracted by his imagination. The nation – no, the _man_ – he is in love with _has_ been alive a lot longer. He's experienced days of pirating and wars before guns; he's experienced more hardships and struggles; he was once on top of the world. The ideas float through Alfred's mind. He wonders what Arthur has done in the past, and then he thinks of who and a twinge of an emotion pricks at his heart.

But the thoughts are interrupted when a hand ghosts across his chest, and he realizes that Arthur has had enough time to pull back the aviator jacket, enough time to slip under his t-shirt – because unlike Arthur, _he_ doesn't dress fancy everywhere he goes, especially not for a birthday party.

"A-Arthur," he says, wondering why his voice sounds so husky, then reminds himself he's probably doubly turned on by the new angle. "Why?"

"You act like you know all about me," Arthur responds as his hand leaves the bare skin and instead goes to run through America's hair. "Hm...you shouldn't have underestimated me."

Underestimated? Alfred frowns. No, he doesn't think he's done that. But if England is going to start thinking so...then this position needs to change.

Grabbing Arthur's arms, he gets the leverage he needs and flips them around, grinning down at the Englishman as soon as he's back on top. "Dude. I'm stronger than you. I know that much~"

A grimace crosses Arthur's face, but it is quickly covered up for which he is glad. "You're just a big bully, that's all."

"Am not~" He replies in a sing-song voice, quickly diverting his attention to go about unzipping England's pants. Whether or not it's true, he decides to smile and lean over to whisper in Arthur's ear. "I'm bigger, too."

Arthur groans this time. "I beg to differ," and then he is once again shocked as England manages to flip their positions. "I told you. Don't underestimate me."

He huffs as soon as he feels his back hit the elevator floor. "Stop doing that," he grumbles as he works to roll over. He makes sure to put his weight into it this time.

Hearing Arthur gasp makes him slightly worried at first. His strength is something to watch; there's no telling what he could do by being a bit too rough. Arthur may not be a girl, but America is known for his absurd amount of power and strength; he does not want to accidentally hurt the one he loves.

"Fine," Arthur grumbles, those green eyes not looking anywhere near Alfred's blue. "Just get on with it. So childish."

He has to pout at that comment. "I'm not a child."

Didn't he just spend the majority of the night dancing in joy because Arthur has admitted as much? He may not have confessed tonight if Arthur hadn't recognized how he had grown. To hear England calling him a child now...he may never admit to the pain it causes him. But he does react. Not with any words, but with action.

He leans down and bites down on Arthur's neck. A child wouldn't do this. A child wouldn't delight in hearing someone gasping underneath them. He sucks on the skin, tasting the salty sweat, and he is pleased to feel the moan at the tip of his tongue. He moves his mouth down, leaving kisses and small bites, as if to emphasize his point. Would a child do this? Or this? Or that? Pushing aside the button-down shirt, he kisses down the opening, leaving small claiming marks as he travels down the bare chest, delighting in the gasps and groans, taking special note of all those little special places that get him a real reaction.

And then he reaches Arthur's trousers, hooking his fingers into the pants and pulling them down. He takes them off, tosses them to the side, but not with too much enthusiasm. Then, he pretends to ignore the one thing Arthur probably wants him to kiss at this point. Instead, he spends his precious kisses on Arthur's waist, teasing him with each touch.

"A-Alfred," the name on Arthur's lips makes him pause. "Don't stop. Keep going."

A quirky tilt to his lips, and he does what he's told. Of course Artie would demand instead of ask. It would take a lot more than simple teasing to get more out of the stubborn Englishman. Still, he gives in. He presses his lips together, hums, and then shifts his position on the floor to get the best angle. Then, ever so slowly, he leans in and gives a test lick.

"Ah -!" Arthur exclaims, even at so small a touch, so Alfred goes further, enveloping the entire shaft into his mouth and giving a deep suck. "Al-fred."

He loves hearing his name in the midst of a moan, so he continues to give everything he can into his work right now. He brings his hands to Arthur's legs and starts to massage around the upper thighs, knowing such skin can be sensitive. Judging by Arthur's wriggling, he is not disappointed. At some point, he feels fingers in his hair, tugging and pushing, trying to push him on. He fights it, denies the hands what they want, forcing Arthur to endure _his_ pace, but he is satisfied enough by the little noises the Englishman makes as Alfred's mouth moves.

With another suck, Alfred pushes in deeper, causing Arthur to jolt. "Ah – Alfred – where did you – learn to -"

The unfinished question almost ruins the moment. For a few seconds, he can see Prussia before him instead of England. He remembers that time during the Revolution, when Gilbert had traveled to help train the troops, when Gilbert had trained _him_ to control his pent up emotions and desires. He can recall the Prussian's amazement when he learned that Arthur had not required his colony to ever do such a thing...apparently, it was a common act over in Europe.

He shakes his head even as he pulls back, pushing the memories to the side and focusing instead on the fact that he just brought Arthur to a climax. Although swallowing is known as some erotic addition, America is not going to give in tonight. Instead, he moves his hand to quickly soak his fingers in England's cum. They are not done.

"Don't ask," he mutters, even as he leans over to cover Arthur's mouth in a kiss.

His cum-soaked fingers start to probe elsewhere. He tries to keep England's attention on the kiss, even as one finger finds the hole he searches for. Something keeps him from his intent, though. Arthur is stubborn as usual, but America does not realize how stubborn until he feels a finger poking at his own virgin hole.

_How did he even get -_

"Damn it, Arthur," he says, having to grab Arthur's arm and roughly pin it to the floor. He squeezes the man's wrist and tries to look serious and upset at the same time. "Stop doing that."

"You...stop..." Arthur groans. "Why should you be the one in charge?"

The question isn't hard to answer, but he does take his time. He loves watching the green eyes twitch when he finds what he's looking for, when he starts to poke inside. "Because," he says. "I'm stronger, bigger, younger, and..." he smirks even when Arthur gives him an exasperated look; he leans down and whispers the last in his ear. "I think you like it."

When England shudders and turns his head, he knows he's guessed right. "Why would you think that?"

"Hmm...I don't know..." he teases.

He starts to thrust his finger in and out of Arthur's entrance, watching the man moving against him in slight twitches, as if he were fighting his own reactions. To add to everything, America makes sure to keep the kisses going. He moves his mouth to just slightly under the man's ear, licking it, leaving a light peck of a kiss. The gentle touch mixed with the thrusting finger elsewhere grants him the low moan he's seeking.

So he smirks and keeps it up. "When you react like that, what am I supposed to think?"

Barely giving Arthur a chance to even think of a response, he kisses down to the nipples of his lover, swirling his tongue around. He watches the man beneath him twitch and hears him groan. So he adds a third finger to the thrusting rhythm, smirking at how the Englishman is rolling his hips to push back against him and rock with the motion.

"S-slow down, git," Arthur whispers, though his head is thrown back shortly after the words leave his lips and a cry escapes as if some hot spot were barely brushed against.

America chuckles. "See, you _like_ it."

"I said...no such thing," Arthur said between pants, eyes cracked open.

Alfred sits back a bit and just watches the green eyes twitch. "You don't have to say anything for me to know."

England decides not to respond to him, panting, eyes cracked open but looking up, as if avoiding America. Of course. Arthur never did like to meet eyes with anyone when things had a chance of being embarrassing. And this must be pressing all of his buttons. Well...he should...

"Alfred," Arthur's voice makes him blink; he looks down again and meets the green eyes, only for the Englishman to flush and turn his head. "I'm ready."

It's surprising to hear. Though he supposes it makes sense. It would have to be said at some point, right? Alfred has to pack up his surprise and smile instead. Arthur is giving him so much, so much faster than he ever imagined. So as he slips out of his pants, America smiles wide and bends over to kiss his new lover on the cheek.

"Told you so," he mutters.

Arthur groans and moves an arm to cover his face. "Shut up..."

This makes Alfred frown. "Aw c'mon, Artie, don't cover your eyes," he says as he reaches over to pull the arm away from the face he fell in love with. "That's my favorite thing about you."

He pauses and lets him go, glad to see Arthur actually keep his arm back, though those green eyes look slightly confused. Why does England always look so confused when he gets complimented? Had no one ever brought up all the amazing things about the man? He was so sure that France at least had told "Angelterre" all the things that made Arthur beautiful. Had he just been assuming wrong this entire time?

Trying not to sigh, he puts the information to the side for later use, and bends Arthur's legs back to allow for access. He slides in easy enough, hopefully slow enough, and the instant heat and tightness makes his breath catch in his throat. "Ah – okay – that's – one – of my favorite things."

Everything else takes a back seat to the crash of feelings that suddenly hit him. The heat. The intensity. It's all he can think about, and he wants more. He can hardly hear the sound of nails scratching against the floor or the low moan of a voice most likely insulting him and telling him to shut up. He pushes in deeper, going in as far as he can, and the haze only increases. The urge for more, for movement, grows stronger and if not for the hand on his arm he may have fallen into instinct. It's so tempting – and so easy when a country is full of patriotic emotion – to fall into instinct and stop thinking, stop hearing, stop reacting to anything but the urge.

He's pretty sure Arthur doesn't say anything, but when he looks through the haze Alfred can see those green eyes tightened, he can see the tense shoulders, and the erratic breathing that seems more or less like he's trying to relax.

Relax. Right. He's supposed to wait on Arthur. He's supposed to wait for the glowing man beneath him to give some kind of signal. A signal to push forward, to move – at the very thought, America almost falls for the urge. But then those green eyes open and he gets a stronger urge to bend over and kiss them, which he does.

"S-stupid, git," he hears Arthur from down here. A quiet whisper. "Get on with it."

Alfred smiles. "As you wish."

And then he starts to move. It's amazing. Glorious. Intoxicating. He keeps his eyes open to watch Arthur but his vision goes hazy as he starts to daze. This is way better than masturbating, way better than anything he's ever done. And he's with Arthur. Finally. At last.

He feels fingernails digging into his back and he comes down from the temporary high to worry about the one underneath him. Green eyes are closed, teeth are clenched, and those nails are really digging in hard. Leaning down until he's pretty much directly on top of Arthur, he licks the man's ear and then whispers.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Heavy breathing hits his own ear and he hears. "Y-yes. Fine. Just been a...long time..."

A long time. Of course Arthur has done this before. With someone else. He knew that already, but still the obvious statement jolts him a bit. He shuts his eyes, shakes his head, and pushes the sick feeling to the side. There isn't time for such stupid jealousy. There's no one else anymore. There's only him. Just him. Him and Arthur.

Feeling his own eyes shining, America picks up his pace, changing angles slightly. Honestly, his knees don't feel all that great on an elevator floor. Maybe he should have waited for the bed like Arthur wanted. Heh. Yeah right. This is way too much fun.

Especially when he hears his name in the middle of a moan, especially when he feels those fingernails unclench and then clench again almost in time with the new thrusting pace he's setting, especially when Arthur's eyes open and there's a new film of hazy pleasure mixed in with all the green.

"Wow," he whispers, mostly to himself.

And then he leans his head down again and gets his hands underneath Arthur, trying to kill any distance at all that might exist between them. His lips land on Arthur's neck, burrowing in deep and claiming. His fingers begin to massage gently. He hears a cry escape his newfound lover and all of his energy is increased ten fold. Arthur is clinging to him now. _Clinging._ It's enough to make him explode with joy.

_Ah hah better not think of exploding...don't wanna let out too early._

He hears another cry and decides to swallow it this time, connecting his mouth to Arthur's. It's sloppy and wet and all over the place, but it doesn't matter. There's a humming feeling against his mouth, and America answers it, feeling his own moan rising from his chest and flowing into Arthur. He shudders at the thought. He wants something else. Release.

_No, not yet. Satisfy him first._

His hands are shaking now, but he forces them to move. Down. Down. Across bare legs, feeling skin twitch at his touch. Up the legs. Massage the thighs. Arthur is pushing up against him now. Their lips break apart and the air between them can barely sustain their needs. America moves his hand to something more sensitive. Just a light touch, but it's enough.

It's enough and Arthur suddenly freezes for just a moment, his hands clenching down tighter than ever, and so Alfred pumps until the orgasm is completely finished. Green eyes are open and staring up, but they aren't seeing. They're in a high, and America finds the look so hot he can no longer contain himself so a few more thrusts and he's filling his lover up, joining him in that high.

As the glorious glow begins to fade, he smiles and kisses Arthur, pleased to find him kissing back. When he breaks apart, it's with a gasp of breath. "Man...I could just...sit here forever."

Arthur hums and then those eyes widen and an arm goes across to hide them again. "Yes, but...why did it have to be in here?"

America chuckles. "Would have been better if -" Before he can finish his sentence, the elevator starts moving and Alfred is reminded of the fact that at some point they had pressed the emergency stop. Weird. So that's why no one walked in...

As they begin moving up, Arthur's eyes fly wide open, the arm having come down to start trying to break away. Not that he can. Alfred isn't getting up anytime soon. "Bollocks!" America giggles a little at the familiar yet still silly-sounding curse. "What if someone walks in right now?"

America feels himself twitch inside Arthur at the very idea. Being watched by strangers is a bit of turn-on, but he already knew that much about himself. "Hmmm...that'd be funny, wouldn't it?"

He leans in to kiss Arthur, but England gasps and shoves a hand in his face. "N-No it wouldn't! Now hurry up and get dressed!"

America huffs and pulls out, but he can feel what's coming before the elevator ever dings and the doors ever open. He looks up and meets the eyes of his citizen. For his part, the business man walks in, looks down, and walks back out without a word. The doors close and the elevator begins moving again.

Alfred grins. "See? That was definitely funny."

Now that he's free, Arthur scrambles back, sitting up with his back to the door before he swats at America. "You shut your mouth! I can't believe that just happened!"

Still finding it funny, Alfred chuckles as he slides back into his pants and tosses Arthur's at him. "Hey, it's okay. It's not like you know anyone over here – except me of course." He shrugs. "Besides, he thought it was brave and funny and only wishes he had the guts to do it, too."

Which is partially true. Sure, America can read his citizens. Sometimes. Especially those that are truly patriotic. But he can't read them in such detail. He's pretty certain the man thought it was brave and funny, though. The rest he's assuming. Because wouldn't it make sense for someone else to want to be as cool as him?

"What makes you say that?" Arthur asks as he slips into his own pants.

"Hm?" America hums. "That's what he was thinking. I can sometimes tell what my people are thinking. Can't you?"

He watches every little movement as Arthur stands up and leans against the wall, fingers shaking just ever so slightly as they start buttoning his shirt again. "Not in a long time, I haven't."

America blinks at that. _Really? That's kind of sad._

Instead of saying anything about it, though, he moves over to the buttons and stares at all the numbers. Most of them are no longer lit up. They must have gone up to the top already, then. Or whatever he had pressed earlier. He isn't too sure what he had pushed earlier in his effort to keep Arthur in the elevator.

"What floor were you on again?"

It would be better to get him back to his room, right? Maybe he could get lucky again. His people's patriotism is through the roof right now and he knows the horny feelings will be back momentarily; he belatedly wonders if Arthur could even last another round. It's possible, right?

"Uhm, second," Arthur answers, so clueless to what is running through America's mind. "It was on the second floor."

"Kay~" He says, clicking the button and then stepping over to stand directly in front of Arthur. "Hey, Artie~"

The Englishman steps back, not that he can go all that far, and his big bushy eyebrows twitch. "What are you thinking?"

"Mmmm, nothing much," America responds, keeping it playful. "Just that you're really beautiful tonight."

There's another kiss shared between them. Quick. Gentle. And Arthur comes away from it looking slightly confused, just as before. "What makes you say that?"

"Cause you are," Alfred adds, getting the man to blush a little. "And your blush only adds to it."

Hands attempt to shove him back, though Arthur's face lights up more at the teasing comment. "I am not blushing."

"Haha, yes you are."

Still, he steps back. Gives the man his space. He probably needs a little right now. Give him time to think. Then again, the elevator chooses now as a good time to open and free Arthur from his teasing American captor. And the Englishman is not at all slow in leaving the elevator, muttering a whispered insult as he leaves.

Alfred follows, of course. It does take a few steps to catch up to the man's sudden quick pace, but he's America. He manages. Setting a hand on Arthur's shoulder, he pouts. "Aw, Artie, don't be like that."

England groans but he stops. "Be like what?"

"Walking away from me like you're mad or something." Since he's here and they're not doing anything, Alfred decides now is a good time to start rubbing Arthur's shoulders.

It makes Artie shudder, which makes him smile. "Who's to say...I'm not mad?"

"Why would you be mad though?"

"A number of reasons actually..."

_Silly Arthur. Talking about reasons to be mad at me while enjoying my shoulder massage._

"Hm? Really?" Alfred says as he leans over and licks the back of Artie's neck. He can't help it; it's too tempting.

Arthur shivers and then turns his head. "Like that. You can't seem to control yourself."

"And that's a problem?"

"Yes, of course it is," Arthur says, turning back though he keeps talking. "Also, you need to learn to read the atmosphere sometimes."

"Huh..."

"And you need to not be so loud, or complain as much as you do."

Alfred pouts at this, moving closer until he can set his chin on top of Arthur's head. "So...I call you beautiful, and you're going to tell me everything you don't like about me?"

"Ah – uhm -"

_Caught you. That wasn't exactly nice and gentlemanly of you, was it?_

"Well – I – I like how -" With all the stuttering, America only wishes he could see the blush that's no doubt on Arthur's face now, too. "...you're really good at massages."

Alfred blinks. Then he giggles. "You're cute when you stutter."

He can almost feel the heat rush to Arthur's face; he's sure if he could tap England's cheek it would be warm. "Why must you keep saying things like that?"

"Cause it's true and I like complimenting you."

_And you obviously haven't had someone compliment you enough in your lifetime. It's time I gave back all that you gave to me._

Arthur sighs and lowers his head. "It's not true, though. None of it is."

He frowns at that, knowing for sure now that Artie really has not had enough compliments thrown his way in his long life. "Hey! I don't lie!"

Shaking his head without a word, Arthur leaves him, pulling out of his lightened grip and walking down the hallway. He refuses to let Arthur leave, though, especially on that note, so he chases him down the hallway. Chases and then picks him up, like a groom carrying his bride.

"So..." he says, as if he's not doing anything unnatural at all. "What room was it? 227?"

Arthur yelps as soon as he's picked up, though his hands do automatically connect around Alfred's neck. "What are you doing? Put me down this instant! This is rather undignified!"

America laughs. "Nope. You were walking funny so I thought I'd be nice." He's making things up, but Arthur _did_ have a little bit of a limp. Not sure why, though. No matter. Alfred finds the room and stops in front of the door. "This is it, right?"

"Yes this is it," Arthur says, his cheeks a nice shade of pink. "The key is in my wallet."

"Well, okay then," Alfred says back, letting Arthur be back on his feet to find the hotel room key on his own. Though the thought did cross his mind to start digging through England's pockets, but that would have been awkward and difficult while still trying to carry him, so, no, this way works best.

England huffs of course and pulls the key out, unlocking the door and walking inside. Having no sense of boundaries, America follows him in and shuts the door. Then, before Arthur has a chance to complain, he pulls the Englishman into a kiss, catching the open mouth and ravishing it completely. At first, he can feel a little resistance, but it isn't too long until Arthur melts into it and joins in the fun.

While keeping the kiss going, Alfred reaches around his new lover and hugs him close. His hands itch to move so he allows them something small and simple. Little massaging circles on Arthur's back. Nothing more. Though that urge is back and so strong.

Eventually, they pull apart, though only slightly, staring at each other in the darkness of the hotel room. Arthur hums as a firework bursts somewhere in the distance, a little flash of light that can be seen through the curtains. "I guess you have a party to go back to so...good night?"

It's awkward, as if Arthur has never been in a relationship before, though Alfred is pretty sure that isn't true. There's too much history there for it to be true. "Psh. Forget the party. Unless you want me to go?"

Arthur's response is quick and clever though definitely laced with something else. "I don't want you to stay here because of me." There's a smile, but there's something sad underneath it all. "Go on. Celebrate your independence."

_No. Not without you. You're trying to do what you think I want. You're pushing me back because you can't believe I actually want to stay here. What can I do to make you understand?_

Alfred makes sure to shake his head. "If that's your only reason for kicking me out, then I'm not going anywhere." He takes Arthur's hands in his and squeezes gently. Then at the shock in those green eyes, he leans over and kisses him again.

_Not going anywhere. Never again. I promise._

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to the Revolutionary War and Prussia "training" America is NOT my idea; it was a request over at the kink meme on livejournal years ago; an amazing fill by an amazing anon author, but I loved the idea so much I totally went with it; there are certain things that become my headcanon after I read them in someone else's fics; a lot of kink meme ideas become my headcanon, so this is an example. Just had to clear up that the reference is to an idea NOT originally mine.


	3. Chapter 3

~3~

Lips on his own. Again. The bloody idiot doesn't know when to stop, and its breaking down all of his walls. He's still trying to wrap his head around what just happened in the elevator. He can't believe he did such a thing. He can't believe he allowed such a thing. As fireworks explode outside the window and his insides ache at the memories, he's trying to wrap his head around the fact that America is still here. Still here, not leaving, still holding him, still _kissing_ him.

He must be dreaming. There's no way such a thing is possible. He even tries to push America out, but the bloody idiot stays and insists. Arms around him, rubbing at his back, breaking down more walls. Bleeding hell this kid is serious. After the heartbreak of losing America, of losing the child he had cared for, he never expects the grown man to be someone he cares for on a different level. But after years of watching, after all the wars, all the world meetings, all the random phone calls in the middle of the night, he has grown fond of the boy.

_No, not a boy anymore. He's proved so much to you tonight._

Still, he doesn't want to keep America from his party. This is supposed to be his night. This is supposed to be a celebration for America to enjoy. Not something that England steals him away from. It's terrible timing, and maybe a part of him really does want to kick the bloody idiot out of his hotel room. In one night they've gone from confession to sex and it's all so fast and yet America stays.

"No, really," he says, pulling away from the blue-eyed boy. "You left your house with France, Prussia, Spain, and a number of other countries I wouldn't trust."

To his surprise, America merely laughs and tosses the worry over his shoulder. "It's fine. They're probably making a mess of things, but that happens all the time and it's nothing new. The authorities will get called and Germany will most likely handle it."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You trust Germany to handle your house for you?"

"Well, yeah," America says with another laugh. "I'm usually too drunk to handle things by myself anyway."

Silly child. That's no way to hold a party. He should have taught him better than this. If you're the host of a party, you're supposed to make sure things stay orderly and that there's no need to call authorities. This means as host you shouldn't be drinking too much to handle any messes thrown your way. Or at least set it up so the crazy trio has no reason to turn things into a destructive nightmare.

He sighs. Then again, it's not like he has any experience hosting parties. The other nations don't really care to show up to anything he hosts. Well, they used to, but he has heard how America's celebrations are the best and the wildest. Perhaps it is because they are so crazy and uncontrolled that the others enjoy coming so often. Christmas parties, New Years, birthday...America does it all. Every year.

Before he can comment on the idea of everyone being set loose on the American city, the body he's standing so close to changes positions and then suddenly he's in the air. His face flushes immediately and he looks around to realize Alfred has picked him up. Bridal style, holding him in his arms like he weighed nothing. Bloody hell this kid has too much strength lying around.

"We should just celebrate together," Alfred says, smiling down at him.

Arthur is about to snap at him. He wants to yell at him to release him and set him down this instant. This is entirely not fair and embarrassing and _why_ does America have to keep catching him off guard like this? He's about to complain and push the man away from him, like he has pushed away everyone else.

And that thought alone makes him stop and rethink things. He has always pushed everyone away. Anyone that tries to get close, he shoves back. Here America is doing the same thing – a bit forward, of course, but that is America. Alfred has been incredibly forward, but he's also been sweet in his own way, somehow knowing all the right things to say to crack through the walls Arthur had thrown up.

The sex has been good, too. Really good. The younger nation knows things that make Arthur wonder if he really had done a good job protecting the boy for so long. Where could Alfred have learned such things? Perhaps his own people were more adventurous than they appeared or -

His face flushes when he realizes the direction his thoughts are taking him. _Stop thinking about the sex. You're not the pervert here. He's the one pushing everything...even if you enjoy it. No! Stop thinking about it!_

Turning his head, he takes a breath and decides to give in. He'll stop pushing people back. Even if America is the one who hurt him the most in the past, ever since then Alfred has been willing to help, willing to work with him, and he has always been there for the idiot. So, he's going to break the last wall and let go. Give in and let the younger nation have his heart, especially with how insistent he has been. (And all those compliments certainly weigh a point in his favor).

"Fine," he whispers. "Today is your day."

It isn't exactly what he means; it's not a real confession or anything. He just gives in and lets America have his way. There's so much he wants to say, and yet so much he wants to keep hidden. He wants to share all of his unease, all of his issues, all of his concerns with someone who will care. Maybe he's finally found that someone in America. Maybe he can finally have someone to talk to about the problems and have someone to lean on, instead of giving so much only to be hurt in return. His hands cling to America's shirt and he realizes with sudden clarity.

He needs America. He wants America. He has America.

The bed is cold when he's unceremoniously dropped on it. For all his sweet talk, the younger nation has no tact or sense of gentleness. But when blue eyes meet his in worry, he realizes that at least the boy realizes as much. There's another kiss. Short and sweet and it gives Alfred all the excuse in the world to climb on top of him. There are two hands on either side of his head and for a moment, Arthur just stares back at him like he can't believe that the boy is asking for more so soon.

For a moment, at least. "What are you doing?"

America smiles and when he speaks Arthur can catch the minty scent in his breath because he's so close. "I have a lot of time to make up for."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"Well, I should have said something about my feelings a long time ago." America keeps his smile but pushes Arthur's bangs to the side and then leans over to kiss him on the forehead. Which makes him blush because of the intimacy in such a simple gesture. "Now I have like a hundred and fifty years to make up for."

_That_ really does make him blush. "R-really? That long?"

"Mmhmm," America hums as he nods, still hovering over him.

Arthur swallows. "Well, uh, could you get off of me?"

A smile and shake of the head. "Dun wanna."

The terrible English makes him groan more than the meaning. "Alfred, really -" He cuts off when the lad leans down to lick his cheek of all things. "H-hey! Control yourself!"

"Dun wanna," America repeats, whispering in his ear this time.

There are now teeth against his ear, nibbling lightly, making the heat rush to his face. "H-hey. Stop that."

"Hmmm," America hums again and then he pulls back thankfully, but there's a smirk and Arthur is sure the lad has something else planned and he's still not climbing off - "Do you want a back massage?"

It makes him freeze, blinking in confusion as he wonders what the hell he heard. It is so random, so off from what the younger nation had been aiming for. A back massage? It's...huh?

"Alfred," he says, noting the little upward acknowledgment nod he receives. "Where did that come from?"

Blue eyes twinkle behind a pair of glasses. Fireworks explode and shine against the glass, spurting out different colors across the blue. The owner of such eyes gives a smile and a shrug. Arthur finds himself captivated as the lad explains himself, and he has to ask again because he is too entranced by the facial expressions and the hanging forelock of hair that refuses to be styled correctly. The man on top of him chuckles and then repeats his answer and Arthur forces himself to stop being such a lovesick teenager. Even if he is slowly realizing how much of a man America has really grown into.

"You just seem really tense, Arthur," America says as he pulls back so England can move around as he wishes. "I want to make you comfortable."

"That's actually," Arthur mutters, sitting up, "kind of sweet."

America smiles again and then leans in to gently press his lips against Arthur's own. It's so gentle, it's unexpected, and Arthur gives in with a lick of response. The kiss is entirely too short, though, and America doesn't take the opportunity England gives. Instead, the lad pulls back and smirks.

"You wanna take off your shirt?" Alfred wobbles on the bed, as if asking the question is awkward even though they have already seen each other at their most intimate. "It does make it easier and all and should feel better, too."

A pop from a firework and Arthur stares at America, trying to read the boy's intentions. "Right...but promise to contain yourself."

While Arthur Kirkland removes his shirt and sets it to the side, Alfred hums. He feels his ears burning because this feels way too much like a stripping movie. He is sure to keep his face down, too, but Alfred surprises him and sets a hand under his chin, making him look up and meet those shining blue eyes. There isn't any words but another kiss instead. This time, America licks at his lips and England lets him in, deepening the moment. While he loves drowning himself in the taste of punch, alcohol, sugar, and mint, America doesn't have it last too long, pulling back far too early and leaving Arthur craving more.

Then there's a hum and a small laugh. "As you wish."

And Arthur feels his face heat up because _he_ is the one finding it hard to contain himself. So he huffs and turns around, sending a playful curse at the bloody teenager. "Like a child, I swear."

"Nah," America responds, hands immediately going to Arthur's shoulders. "You're just old."

England shivers at the touch. Cold hands against his heat and he is almost expecting America to comment on it. But Alfred doesn't say anything else, leaving him at the playful insult at his age. Or maybe Alfred is focused for once in his bloody life. Those strong hands are suddenly incredibly gentle and soft, massaging with the right amount of force as they find the knots between Arthur's shoulders.

The hands move to the back of his neck and he has to hold back a moan. It feels so good; he has to wonder where the younger nation learned such a technique. He had never marked Alfred as someone to spend time on learning how to give a massage.

"I'm not old," he manages to mutter. "You're just young."

_Young and experienced. How did you ever manage that?_

"Mmhmm, just keep denying it all you want. I don't mind being called young, really, cause it still means you're an old man." If Alfred hadn't been so good at placing his hands in just the right spot, at rubbing and coaxing the knots out of Arthur's tired muscles, he might have snapped at him for his insufferable comments about his age. "Hmm...you should lie down."

_Lie down? You really are just using this as an excuse..._

He opens his mouth to say as much but because of Alfred's wonderful touch a quiet moan escapes his lips instead. He immediately decides against speaking and instead just lets the boy lead him down to the bed again. Stretching out, he buries his face in the hotel pillow and sighs in contentment. He can almost forgive Alfred for his impossible urges and the embarrassing sex in the elevator. Almost. At least the boy has the decency to make all those aches in his over used muscles feel better.

Alfred only laughs. "Haven't you ever had a massage before?"

Arthur hums, closing his eyes as he searches back through his memories. "Ah – well, once, from Japan, but that was a long time ago."

"Japan?" Alfred freezes, hands just below Arthur's shoulders. "Really?"

Arthur huffs into the pillow. "We did have the Anglo-Japanese alliance all those years ago."

"Ah, right," Alfred mumbles.

As fingers and thumbs start to work at the kinks in his back, Arthur hums and lets his thoughts take him away. Yeah, there had been a time with Japan. Back in the day there had been many times with many people. Such is how alliances worked back then, unspoken agreements, though not everyone resulted to crass vulgarity. Japan merely wanted to show off his kind hospitality, and England had easily accepted. No alliance had ever been as...sex-free. Until the times changed, at least.

Strange to hear Alfred mumbling to himself, though. Could the boy be jealous? Surely by now Alfred knew how the nations had struck deals in the past. _Is he really jealous of the past?_ Well, best not mention Francis then. Lord knows how well Alfred would handle such information.

When fingers roam to his waistband, Arthur jerks his head around, only to meet an innocently smiling America. Hands on his lower back, pressing gently, rubbing in circles, working at the muscles. Blue eyes meeting his raised eyebrows and fingers running just at the edge of his trouser line. As if he isn't doing anything wrong.

Arthur sighs and rolls his eyes, turning back to lay his head in the pillow. He can't deny it feels good. Might as well let the boy have his fun. But then Alfred's hands come up and England lets out a moan – which he quickly hides in the pillows – because making such a noise sounds like he's whining for more right now.

His hands are soon clenching into the pillow as he gasps. Those hands have moved to his legs, and their working their way up. Little massaging motions on his thighs and higher. And -

"H-hey," he whispers, biting his bottom lip because when did his voice start sounding so breathy?

"What?" America whispers back, and then those hands are working to remove Arthur from his pants. For the second time tonight. "You know you don't really need this-"

"Ah, hey!" Arthur turns around and does his best to glare at Alfred, even though he's sure his face is incredibly red. "What did I tell you?"

America whines. "Oh come on. We're in a bed this time."

_Yes, we are, but that doesn't mean I can go another round._

Fireworks pop from outside the window and Arthur is reminded of something. Something important. It is not only America's birthday, it is his most patriotic day of the year. No doubt the boy has a welling of emotions he finds difficult to control and a stamina for such things beyond any normal human. Such is the life and suffering of the nations, after all.

So he sighs and turns back around, burying his face in the pillows as he murmurs. "Like a horny teenager."

"Hey, you can call me a teenager all you want," Alfred says, his hands too busy undressing England to care about continuing his massage. "That just makes you an old man."

With a frown, Arthur turns around to face America. He is tired of hearing all these comments about his age. Sure, he's older than America, but does the lad need to bring it up all the time? It's not like they're humans, mortals, where age actually matters. All that matters to them is the sustaining power of their nation. Age...so then why does it bug him so much?

He is ready to give America a piece of his mind, but then he finds himself staring into a pair of blue eyes without the glasses blocking them. Clear blue, and the young nation has not only removed Arthur's clothes, he's apparently de-clothed himself as well. A toned chest scarred from the battles, the wars, the in-fighting. They all have their scars, of course, so it is to be expected, even if England has tried so hard for years to keep America from suffering as the rest of the world suffers. He supposes there is no use anymore; the boy has become a superpower nation and is now spreading his ideals throughout the world. Still, those scars tell their own stories. Just as Arthur's do.

Closing his eyes, Arthur quirks his mouth up into a half smile. "I take it you want another round, then?"

"Yeah," Alfred says, "I could go all night."

Arthur sighs; it is as he suspected. "Of course you can." He opens his eyes and smiles. "I understand. You have this huge amount of energy waiting to be used. Excitement and pride from your people. Isn't that right?"

Alfred looks put off guard and something indistinct flashes across his eyes as he turns his head. "Y-yeah. That's exactly..."

The younger nation doesn't continue. Instead he acts. While America leans over to suck on his already hickey-abused neck, Arthur stares up at the ceiling. Lost in memories, even as he groans in response to the nips to his neck. "I know...I've had that feeling before, too."

"Huh?" America pulls back, but his hands can't stand to be still, ghosting over England's chest. "When?"

Arthur hums. "A lot of times actually. When you're as old as I am -"

He doesn't realize what he's admitted to until America starts laughing. Light chuckles against his ear, but the younger nation doesn't seem fit to explain himself or even comment on it, simply letting his light little giggles brush against Arthur. For his part, he can feel his face blush. Bloody hell, this idiot keeps making him turn red over silly little things.

Lips crash against his own, and Arthur lets his eyes slip closed, forgetting the embarrassing admission of his older age. He's willing to forgive the brat for his laughter because bloody hell the idiot is amazing at enveloping him in sweet yet deep kisses. He's breathing in mint and alcohol again, opening his mouth to inhale everything he can.

His arms almost seem to move on their own, wrapping around America's neck. He wants Alfred to be closer. He needs him to be closer. He presses against the back of the man's neck and holds him down, keeps him down, insists he stay until they are both breathless.

Such it is that America pants when he's finally allowed to break free. "Okay...weird question...do you want lube?"

Arthur opens his eyes slowly and stares at the blond haired blue eyed wonder. A part of him wants to fall over in giggles. Lube? Asking that _now?_ Seeing as Alfred is trying to be serious – and _trying_ to be thoughtful, he supposes – Arthur just shakes his head, quirks a smile, and then pulls the American down for another breath-stealing kiss.

"Heh," Alfred whispers when he manages to pull back again. "Do you like it rough?"

Arthur has the chance to blink, and then he is unable to hold back a gasp as the hasty American moves in without waiting for a response. Sure, he's already been invaded tonight, but the force of this attack comes completely by surprise. It leaves him clinging into Alfred's shoulders, digging his nails into skin, as his eyes widen and his head is thrown back.

Oh and there is the little shout of affirmative, followed by the moan and whispered, "Yes."

He reaches up to hide his face, but America moves again and grabs his arms pinning them to the bed. "Hey. I already told you. Don't hide your eyes from me."

_Insufferable brat..._

When Arthur tries to respond, he is thoroughly thwarted. A kiss and more rough thrusting making him gasp. He shuts his eyes and when the kiss breaks, tries hard not to whine in protest. Whine. Him. Does he really crave this man's touch and kisses so much?

"Hey," America's hands drop their grip on Arthur's own, moving to cup his face and rub at his cheeks. "Look at me."

Panting breaths echo between the two of them as Arthur forces his eyes to flutter open. Another move from the American and he damn near closes them again, but he works hard to keep them open, since Alfred likes them so much. Green eyes meet blue and Arthur feels an ache in his heart. A firework explodes in the distance, but the pop and crackles get lost even as the pain of this day's memory threaten to envelope him. Instead, he focuses on the man before him, above him, inside him. He gasps.

_Inside..._

White teeth shine in a full American smile. "You're so...perfect."

Such words threaten to bring tears to his eyes, but Arthur manages to keep himself under control, though he is tired and close to cumming again, and so hot with need no matter how impossible it is. Alfred pulls out and then shifts positions. Arthur finds his arms wrapping around the boy's neck again, clinging to the sweaty, muscled back. Fingernails dig into shoulder blades as Alfred decides to pick him up. Pick him up and settle him in America's lap, lining him up to fall on the man's cock, and it's so deep it makes him moan and scratch at the sweaty skin.

He quickly buries his face in Alfred's shoulder. His own legs react to the desire, wrapping around America's waist as he is lifted up and slammed down. He starts to bite into the skin between the man's neck and shoulder, earning a moan of his own, and panting breathes as Alfred begins to quicken the pace. Another firework. Another gasp.

He's close. Oh, so close now. He can feel it building, wanting release, needing more. Strong hands, slightly calloused as everyone's are, grip to his side, heat against his stomach. His body moves with Alfred's guidance, and he moves back. Impaled. Over and over and...

There it is. He slams his eyes closed and cries out into a mouthful of Alfred's skin. Fingers dig in tightly. He hears a gasp that is not his own and everything stops even though everything continues. No, not stop, just slower. Slower. The high takes him beyond and he settles back down to earth with an exhausted sigh.

Half delirious, he barely hears America's whispered question. "You want a shower?"

"Hnn," he hums in response.

_Sounds nice..._

Before he can register the fact that America took his mumbled nothingness as an affirmative, Arthur feels cool air, hears the slide of glass twice, and then the trickle and mist of a gentle shower. His back is slammed against a cold tile wall, and he moans in response, only to have lips capture his own. Alfred is still inside him. Still...

_Dash it all, the boy is still hard._

When the kiss breaks, he blearily slips his eyes open and stares at the true blue eyed wonder before him. Wild blond hair matted slightly from the shower water and the forming mist as the heat begins to fill the room. He groans when Alfred smiles at him, and groans again when the lad pounds into him, his head rolling back to smack into the tile wall. It feels absolutely amazing, but...

"H-how are you...still...going?"

It's exhausting. The man is still pressing into him, still slamming into him, rougher even then he had been earlier. Or maybe he's just so sore now. How many times tonight? A confession on a birthday and this is what he gets. Two? Three? He can barely think to count because of how sleepy his brain is, and the heat is consuming him _again_. So quickly. His own libido is nothing to laugh at, and he's been craving such love making even if he pushes everyone away, but this is...ridiculous.

Another slam against the wall. His arms are having trouble hanging on. He's going to pass out. So much sex he passes out. No, he won't let it happen. He's the United Kingdom, the British Empire. He should be able to keep up with the younger nation, even if it is on the boy's birthday, which Alfred mumbles into his ear as an explanation. His birthday. All the sexual urgings and the insane libido to have round after round after...

Lips against his own. His neck. Water in his face. He gasps again because there's a curling in his lower stomach _again_. So soon, too, but it's there. When his seed trickles out instead of exploding, he whimpers. Four. Bloody hell. How many has the kid had? This is -

"Wow, Artie," America says against his neck, everything freezing. "Is it too much? Seriously, I don't want to hurt you."

He grimaces at having his stamina and tolerance questioned by this brat. "Nnng...no...you're not...hurting me."

"As long as," America says, moving again, so slowly pulling out and so slowly pushing back in; it makes Arthur shudder, "you're sure."

Gasping for breath, cringing at each movement, still feeling the brat against his inner walls, Arthur growls and he throws his own head against the shower wall. "Why won't you...just hurry up...and cum already?"

"Hah – about to -" America says as the pace suddenly speeds up, making Arthur shut his eyes tightly.

But then the man _finally_ lets out a grunt and a long groan as he _finally_ lets loose inside him. There is a pause, a moment in which neither of them say anything. Where Arthur looks at the sweaty man who has so quickly claimed his heart. Where Alfred pants against the one he's supposedly been wanting for so long. Then blue eyes look up and white teeth sparkle in a grin.

"I love you," Alfred says.

And it is so clear. So insistent. So heartfelt. That Arthur feels his face heat up as he stammers out his own response. Y-yeah...I..."

A finger reaches up to press against his lips and Arthur furrows his brow. "Don't. It's too early for you to say it, but don't worry. I'll wait."

_Too early? The nerve of this -_

Before he can comment on it, though, America grins and moves them away from the wall, catching the water directly. It's not as warm as it was when they started, but the cool pricks actually feel nice against his otherwise heated skin. He's calming down, cooling down, winding down, and so the yawn comes as no surprise. His feet touch the ground as they wash up, but then America picks him up again and decides to set him down on the bathroom counter as he grabs some towels, tossing one at him.

"Hm," Arthur says into the awkward silence, or the silence that _should_ have been awkward but for some reason isn't. "That was nice. I haven't felt like that in a long time."

While he sets the towel on his head and goes to work drying his hair, Alfred stands in front of him, pausing his own movements to blink at the information. "Really?"

"Well what do you expect?" Arthur snaps, turning his head with a scowl, even as his face flushes a bit. "When you make me cum no less than four times -"

A hand gets under his chin and turns it to meet lips to lips. Short and sweet, punctuated by Alfred's big smile. "I knew you'd like it."

Arthur sets the towel down and smiles himself. "Next time it's my turn."

"Okay then," America says with a laugh. For a moment his eyes seem to shine in the light as he sets a hand on Arthur's leg and smiles with all the feeling in the world, as if his words mean more than what they seem. "As you wish."


End file.
